It's Just A Scratch!
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: For once, Dean's not downplaying an injury and it is hardly more than a scratch.  But, it results in dire consequences . . . for both Winchesters.  A KazCon Auction Story.  Reviews are always welcome and much appreciate.
1. Battling Benjamin Booker

Disclaimer: Nope, I just checked and I still don't own 'em. What a shame!

It's Just a Scratch

By: Vanessa Sgroi

"C'mon, Sam," grunted Dean Winchester, "hurry the hell up!" A chill wind dried the meandering tracks of sweat on Dean's face as he called out somewhat breathlessly to his brother.

"I am, damn it," yelled Sam, shoveling furiously and sending dirt frantically flying over his left shoulder.

Dean yelped as an unseen force, controlled by the approaching vengeful spirit of Benjamin Booker, pitched him forward like a baseball over home plate. Contact with the ground drove air from his lungs. The hunter quickly regained his feet and wheezed a little, working to regain his breath. At the same instant, he was wishing he had time to locate the rock salt filled shotgun that had gone flying the first time Booker's spirit had launched him into the air.

"Sam? He's getting faster, and I'm getting slower."

Without warning, the elder Winchester was again picked up and lobbed like a lawn dart through the air. This time when he landed, the tip of a wing of a marble angel monument abraded his cheek and his right knee connected with a sizeable rock hidden by crunchy brown leaves and other debris. He couldn't hold back a surprised cry at the jolt of pain.

Hearing Dean's cry of distress, Sam redoubled his efforts to uncover Booker's coffin. He was rewarded moments later as the shovel landed with a dull thud on the casket lid. Clearing away more dirt, Sam positioned himself to pry open the lid.

"Got it!" he called.

His announcement was greeted with a curse, followed by another thwack of body meeting ground.

Sam hurriedly wrested the lid open, revealing Booker's brownish, pitted bones. Pulling himself from the open grave, he grabbed the container filled with salt and sprinkled it liberally over the bones,before snatching the gas can he'd left close by and dousing the remains with the flammable liquid. Next, he extracted a book of matches from his shirt pocket, lit the entire book, and tossed it in the hole. The resounding whoosh was accompanied by Sam's gusty sigh of satisfaction.

Dean watched as the angry spirit of Benjamin Booker, now only about two feet from his own face, melted away in a waterfall of gray sludge, disappearing completely in a matter of seconds. He pushed himself up off the ground and stood still for a moment assessing the various throbs and aches assaulting his body. Deciding the worst of it was his knee, bruised and tender from its close encounter with the rock, Dean opened his mouth to make a smart-ass crack to Sam when his brother suddenly shouted.

"Dean, watch out!"

The elder hunter spun to face the threat and instinctively ducked when he spied a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye. To his disgust, he was a hairsbreadth too slow and that same flash of silver sliced across the top of his left shoulder.

"Ow! What the hell?" His eyes scanned the gloom-filled cemetery but saw nothing of significance. "Sam? What'd you see?"

"I dunno. A black shadow with a white face . . . I think."

Both brothers remained still but their eyes scoured their surroundings for further danger, however, all was still.

Dean muttered, "Well, whatever it was, it seems to be gone. What was that silver flash?"

Sam countered, "Happened too fast. Didn't see what it was. But what was the 'ow' for?"

His older brother mumbled something Sam didn't quite catch.

"What was that?"

"I said," huffed Dean, "the damn thing hurt when it clipped me on the shoulder."

Approaching his brother, Sam asked, "How bad is it?" He watched closely as Dean rotated his shoulder.

"It's all right. It's just a scratch."

"Uh huh," came Sam's skeptical reply, "I'm still checking it when we get back to the motel."

"Whatever," Dean sighed, "Hey, you think we can find the silver thing here somewhere?"

"In the dark with just flashlights? I doubt it."

Dean rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Nevermind. I'm too tired to look anyway. Let's just finish up and go."

He moved forward to start cleaning up their post salt-and-burn mess.

The younger hunter stated, "You're limping."

"Thank you for that brilliant diagnosis, Marcus Welby, M.D.," snorted Dean, "and before you ask—it's fine—just bruised from connecting with a big ass rock on the ground somewhere."

Mentally noting to check the knee as well as the shoulder, Sam left his intention unspoken since Dean would merely grumble.

As quickly as they could, the boys cleaned up the scene and then headed for the Impala. A half moon and sprinkling of stars shining bright between scuttling clouds, glittered on the shiny black car as they approached.

"Want me to drive?" Sam asked, stowing the two shovels and empty containers in the trunk. He watched as Dean tossed the shotgun in after them and closed the trunk lid.

"Nah, I got it."

A twist of the key brought the Impala to life and the big car rumbled out of the cemetery, turning toward the Best Rest Motel. The ride back was silent except for several huge yawns elicited from Dean.

Once back in the room, Dean limped over to his bed and slumped down on the edge, wincing as his swollen knee protested being bent. Another huge yawn caught him unaware and his jaw popped with its intensity.

He mumbled, "You wanna shower first?"

Seeing how tired his brother was, Sam offered, "No, you can go, but let me see that 'scratch'".

Dean's first thought was to argue, but he decided it wasn't worth it. Instead, he pulled off the two shirts he was wearing, bemoaning the torn cloth and small bloodstains.

Sam leaned in for a closer look at the wound. Though it looked a little raw and painful, he was pleased that, for once, Dean hadn't been just downplaying a wound. It was slightly more than a scratch and would need cleaning and bandaging as it was still oozing blood, but still it was a minor wound. He sighed in relief.

"Told ya."

"What?"

"Told ya it was just a scratch," murmured the older man.

"Yeah, imagine that—for once you were honest," teased Sam. "It still needs cleaning and bandaging. Now let me see that knee."

"Ahhh, Sam . . ."

"I'm not gonna take no for an answer, dude."

Knowing Sam could be surprising adamant when he made up his mind, and also knowing he'd never get the leg of the jeans up over his injured knee, Dean reluctantly stood and undid the button and zipper of his jeans then pushed them to his ankles.

Sinking back on the bed, he muttered, "Happy now?"

Sam was silent has he examined the swollen joint. He pushed gently at the bruising with his fingers and he heard his brother hiss. "Looks painful."

"Ya think?" growled Dean.

"All right, all right," Sam raised his hands in a placating manner, "I'll bandage that cut on your shoulder after you get out of the shower, okay?"

Yawning again, Dean nodded before getting up and limping to the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he turned the knobs and set the water temperature to just shy of too hot. Stripping quickly, he slid underneath the soothing waterfall.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam decided to get some ice for his brother's knee while Dean was in the shower. He grabbed the little plastic bucket off the table. Thinking a couple of sodas might taste good too, he checked his pocket for money before snatching up the key and hurrying from the room.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean sighed as the hot water caressed his abused muscles, easing their throbbing. He ducked his head under the spray and reached for the small bottle of shampoo tucked away in the corner of the tub.

The blinding pain struck without warning. Every pain receptor in his body—from his head to his toes—lit up like a Christmas tree. Every molecule felt electrified. He crashed to his knees with a guttural cry. The hot water, now burning like acid on his exposed skin, continued to rain down trapping the breath in his agonized lungs.

And just as fast as it struck, the pain disappeared.

Dean remained on his hands and knees, shivering despite the heat of the water. With supreme effort, he reached up and turned off the taps. In the sudden silence, just for a split second, he swore he heard a tinny echo of laughter. Shaking his head to dispel the crazy notion, Dean crawled out of the tub. Standing on shaky legs, he groped for the scratchy motel towel and slung it around his hips, not bothering to dry off and then slowly shuffled back into the main room, his twice- abused knee protesting every step.

TBC . . .


	2. Avin Calling

Juggling the ice-filled pink plastic tub and sodas, Sam managed to open the door to their motel room. Expecting Dean to still be lingering in the shower, he was more than a little surprised to find his older brother sitting on the edge of his bed clad only in a towel. As if that wasn't unusual and puzzling enough, Dean was motionless and staring into space.

"Hey, bro, you okay?"

When Dean failed to answer, Sam dropped the stuff in his hands on the nightstand and placed a hand on his brother's uninjured shoulder. Dean jumped at the contact.

"You with me, man?" Sam watched as Dean blinked a couple of times before focusing on his face.

"Huh?"

"Are you okay?" Sam repeated anxiously.

The older man roughly shrugged off Sam's hand. "I'm fine. I told you I was fine. Damn it, don't you ever listen? Or do you just like hearing yourself say those freakin' words?" Dean knew his irritated growl was totally over the top, but the words spilled out anyway.

Undeterred, Sam said, "Dude, what the hell—you're sitting on your bed in nothing but a towel. That so isn't like you!"

Dean looked down at himself, amazed to see Sam was right. He rubbed a hand over his face as a chill raised goose bumps all over his body. Without a word, he stood and reached for his bag, pulled out some clothes, and marched toward the bathroom, his limp more pronounced than it had been. The door shut behind him with a resounding thud.

Sam stared at the closed door, confusion and concern written all over his face.

Inside the bathroom, Dean dropped the towel and yanked on his boxers and t-shirt. Clutching the sink for a moment, he stared at his reflection trying to figure out why he'd just snapped at his brother. He wasn't mad or irritated at Sam, and the words had felt alien on his tongue when he'd muttered them.

A wave of fatigue swamped him, forcing him to grip the sink tighter to avoid dropping to his knees. When it passed, he straightened and tentatively let go of the support. He made his way out of the tiny room, thoughts of sleep pretty much crowding out all else. His brother was tapping away at his computer as Dean sank down on his mattress, easing back up against the headboard.

Sam watched Dean out of the corner of his eye, noticing the grimace when he straightened out his right leg.

"I brought you some ice for your knee." Without saying anything else, Sam confiscated a used towel from the bathroom and filled it with ice, gathering the ends and knotting them. He sat it gently on Dean's bruised joint and felt him tense.

"Hey . . . I," Dean's hand circled Sam's wrist, "Sam, I'm . . . I . . ." He wanted to tell Sam he was sorry, maybe—just maybe—tell him about that weird blast of pain, but he stumbled over the words.

Before he could spit out another syllable, Sam asked, "How's that cut on your shoulder?"

"What?"

"The cut on your shoulder. Does it need bandaging?"

Dean thought about it, but honestly couldn't give an answer. "Uh . . . I dunno."

The younger hunter bit back a sigh of frustration. Normally he'd think his brother was either being a stubborn pain in the ass or was just messing with him, but for some reason, Sam sensed this wasn't the case. His stomach tightened with worry.

"Let me take a look."

Instead of the argument he expected, Sam was shocked to see Dean merely pull his arm out of the sleeve and lift the t-shirt out of the way to expose his shoulder and the raw-looking wound that still oozed ever so slightly.

"Looks like it could use a couple of butterfly bandages. Did you wash it really good?"

"What?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam repeated, "Did you wash it . . . you know, when you were in the shower?"

Thinking of the shower brought back sharp memories of that pain, and Dean involuntarily shuddered.

"Nevermind, I'll use some peroxide on it." _And some holy water._

Sam gathered the few supplies he needed and laid them down on the bed next to Dean. It only took a few minutes to clean the long, fairly shallow furrow and place four butterfly bandages over it. As he stashed the supplies back in the first aid kit, he asked, "You need anything else?"

Dean smoothed his army green t-shirt back into place. "I . . . I think I'm good. Hey, Sam . . . thanks." It wasn't the apology he owed his younger sibling, but his tone was sincere and the words heartfelt.

Sam nodded. "You should keep that ice pack on 20 minutes or so. I'm gonna grab a shower."

The older hunter sighed as the door quietly clicked closed behind his brother. Spying the sodas on the nightstand, he popped one open and downed half the can in a few deep swallows. The cool liquid felt good going down but felt like a block of ice once it hit his stomach. Dean again felt shivers race down his spine. He thought about climbing under the covers then remembered the ice on his sore knee and stayed where he was. Dropping his head back, Dean closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. And then he was asleep.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

With a cold, cruel smile twisting her deep carmine lips, Avin fingered the dark mirror lying flat on the table in front of her. It was working. Just as she had hoped, it was working. She sent a puff of arctic breath ripping across the surface and watched the light-haired man she saw deep in the mirror's depths shiver. She dragged a blood red fingernail across the man's shoulder where she knew the wound to be, and was pleased to see him grimace and moan in his sleep. Her smile grew, and she started to hum a dry, whispery dirge.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam exited the bathroom some fifteen minutes later, steam billowing behind him. He found his brother fast asleep, still sitting straight up, with his chin resting on his chest. Sam winced. Dean certainly looked uncomfortable. Moving between the beds, he noticed that Dean was shivering, which he thought was odd since the room was actually rather warm. Feeling his forehead, Sam was relieved to note no sign of fever. He removed the ice pack from Dean's knee and shook him gently.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Hmmmm," Dean's mumble sounded like a moan.

"Why don't you get under the blankets instead of lying on top of them?"

"Dun-no, tired."

Sam was tired too, and really in no mood to argue or cajole. "Okay, fine. At least scoot down and lay flat. I don't want to listen to you bitch in the morning about a stiff neck or something."

Dean squirmed around until he was laying flat on his back with his head on his pillow. It wasn't his usual sleeping position, but he didn't care and started to drift toward deeper slumber once more. For a second his brow furrowed, "Hey, Sammy, why're you humming?"

Puzzled, Sam looked at him, "Dude, what are you talking about? I'm not humming."

Dean whispered something that sounded like "oh" and fell quiet as sleep claimed him.

The younger Winchester pulled the blanket off his bed and draped it over Dean who was still intermittently shivering. With a yawn, he climbed into his own bed. It didn't take long for him to get comfortable and his own eyes slid shut.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam wasn't sure how long he'd been out when a whisper of sound woke him. He listened for a second with his eyes closed and tensed, suddenly positive he was being watched. Keeping his breathing even, Sam opened his eyes a crack. There was just enough light coming from the illuminated parking lot to make out a large, dark shape—the silhouette of a tall man—standing beside his bed. Sam's breath then hitched in his throat for in the man's hand was the glint of steel. He recognized it as the deadly glint of a large knife. Sam watched in horror as the man raised his arm high over his head. When the arm began to descend, Sam had barely enough time to roll over and off the bed, hearing the knife thud into the mattress where he'd been laying a split second before. It was as he was rolling that he acknowledged the identity of his attacker.

"Dean!"


	3. Dodging, Weaving, and Disarming

As Sam hit the floor, finely tuned hunter's instinct took over, and he smoothly regained his feet, settling instantly into a fighting stance. It took him a second longer to overcome the shock that it was his own brother attacking him.

"What the fuck? Dean!"

He watched, appalled, as Dean yanked the blade from the depths of the poly-fill mattress and lunged. Sam easily dodged that uncoordinated move,but couldn't duck away fast enough to avoid the hastily thrown punch that impacted with his lower lip, sending him staggering a few steps backward. His brother took advantage of the slip and surged forward, knife gleaming and poised to make a downward plunge. Without a second thought, Sam grabbed the thick library book he'd abandoned earlier on the bottom corner of his bed and swung it in front of himself like a shield just as the blade descended.

The knife entered the book with a jarring thump. Sam heard his brother hiss in pain as his grip unexpectedly tore loose from the handle and his palm slid along the rapier-sharp edge of the weapon, leaving a bloody gash in its wake.

The younger Winchester threw the book, knife now firmly embedded, across the room well out of Dean's reach. There was no time to even breathe a sigh of relief at having disarmed his sibling though, as Dean moved in and landed a couple of hard jabs to Sam's ribs. Slightly breathless, both from exertion and the well-placed blows, Sam dodged to the left and launched a fist at Dean's head, connecting with his lower jaw though not much force was behind the punch. Twisting slightly, Sam managed to launch another strike, hitting Dean above the left eye, opening a small cut.

Sam let out a startled yell when Dean suddenly hooked a leg behind his and dropped him roughly to the floor. Before he could move, Dean's full weight fell on top of him, his forearm pressing painfully against Sam's throat. With his injured hand, Dean threw two more punches, a solid one to Sam's cheekbone and a glancing blow across his nose—just hard enough to start it bleeding. Desperate, and having little in the way of leverage, Sam managed to sandwich his fist between their bodies and drove it into the other man's solar plexus. The result was instantaneous. Dean gasped, and his body went lax as pain set in and he tried to suck in air. Quickly shoving his brother off of him, the taller man stood. With a silent apology, Sam bent over and landed a final blow, sending Dean into unconsciousness.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Avin sighed and licked her blood-red lips as the mirror grew dark. Though the temporary loss of contact bothered her, she felt a rush of power at her growing ability to alternately hurt and control the sandy-haired man. It was like a drug, sending a delicious, if not delirious, tingle throughout her body. Like with any drug, there came a craving—an all-consuming craving. And she wanted more.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam lowered himself onto the edge of the chair by the table, his muscles trembling from the frantic surge of adrenalin brought on by the attack and resultant fight. He stared at his brother's prone body, struggling to come to terms with what just happened—trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his brother had just attempted to kill him. Yet, deep down Sam knew that it hadn't really been Dean. Yes, physically it was his brother's body, but _something__ else_ had tried to kill him. That knowledge did little to stop the chill tripping down his spine and settling like a rock in his stomach.

After a few minutes, he forced himself to his feet, groaning a little as his abused muscles screamed. With a grunt, he grabbed the front of Dean's t-shirt and hauled him into a sitting position. From there, Sam dragged him over to his bed and clumsily maneuvered Dean's deadweight up onto the mattress, his breath all but gone and his own injuries throbbing with every heartbeat by the time he finished. He paused briefly, head resting in his hands, before retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom where he'd placed it earlier.

Sam quickly cleaned Dean's new injuries, grimacing at the angry-looking slash across his right palm. Determining it didn't need stitches, he doused it liberally with hydrogen peroxide and used butterfly bandages to close it before wrapping the hand in several layers of gauze. After seeing to his brother's welfare, Sam carried the first aid kit back into the bathroom and proceeded to take care of his own.

When he finished, Sam slumped tiredly onto the hard, faux wood chair again, eyes pinned on his unconscious sibling. There would be no more sleeping for him that night, and likely for a good while to come. Biting at his thumbnail, he contemplated his next move. Not knowing what else to do, Sam picked up his cell phone and flipped it open, scrolling swiftly through his contact list. Finding the number, he hit the "Send" button and listened to the electronic musical pings as the telephone dialed. The phone at the other end rang a good six times before a sleep-gruff voice answered.

"Singer. And this better be damn good."

"Hey . . . uh . . . Bobby. It's Sam," he responded, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice.

"Sam? I assume you're not callin' at this time of night just to say hi," growled the older man, "What's wrong?"

The younger man allowed himself a tiny half smile when Bobby's craggy voice thickened with concern. "I . . . I need your help, man. Dean . .. uh . . ." Sam's voice lowered and trembled, "Dean just tried to kill me."

"WHAT!"

Sam fingered his stinging split lip. "I mean, it was Dean—his body. But, it wasn't _him_. Couldn't have been _him_. You know what I mean?"

Bobby was quiet for several moments as he absorbed Sam's words. "Maybe you should start at the beginning."

"Okay. We just finished a salt-and-burn. A spirit by the name of Benjamin Booker. Was an easy hunt—no major injuries. The only weird part was at the end when something silver came outta nowhere and cut Dean's shoulder. But it wasn't much more than a scratch."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. Except Dean seemed off somehow. Like out of it. I thought maybe he was just tired. And then—"

"Then?"

"A little while ago, I woke up to find him standing over me with a knife in his hand. And if I would have been two seconds slower rolling out of the way, I'd be dead right now."

"Holy shit!" Bobby exclaimed.

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, that's what I've been saying since I opened my eyes and saw that knife."

"So where is he now?"

"Out cold in his bed. We fought, and I . . . I knocked him out."

"Anything show up on the scan of the room?" queried the older hunter.

"Ah, damn, I dunno—I didn't . . . damn it . . . I didn't check. But there were no cold spots, no flickering lights, no nothing."

"You think he's possessed?"

"His eyes were normal," muttered Sam, "But, then again, I didn't say 'Christo' either. Too busy avoiding the damned knife. Guess I really messed up, huh?"

"Don't be too hard on yourself, kid. You know that when you're in a fight for your life, you tend to get tunnel vision."

Sam grunted. "Yeah."

"Listen, let me do some—"

A soft groan from Dean drew Sam's attention away from Bobby's comment. His eyes locked on his sibling, who was showing signs of coming around. Sam tensed.

"Hey, Bobby—I have to go. Dean's waking up."

"Right. I'll do some research and get back to you as fast as I can. And, Sam? Be careful."


	4. Awareness Returns

Dean surfaced from the dark void encompassing him with a few breathy moans. He hurt all over but his head, right hand, and right knee all throbbed in perfect unison with his heartbeat. He shifted slightly in an attempt to get more comfortable, which proved to be a joke as the thin mattress provided next to no cushioning for his aching body.

_Damn, musta drank way too much last night._

He pried open his stubbornly uncooperative eyelids and blinked several times to clear away the blur. Turning his head, he could just make out Sam standing at attention across the room.

"Sam?"

Dean frowned when his brother stiffened further and remained silent.

"Sam?" he rasped again.

"Dean?"

The elder Winchester noticed a definite edge to his younger brother's voice, and it left him puzzled. He struggled to sit up, biting his lip as various pains continued to make themselves known.

"What's wrong?"

"You're you again?"

Sam's voice was still tight, and he was staring a hole through Dean, making him squirm. So focused was he on Sam's actions, his actual words failed to make an impression.

"You mad at me or something? What'd I do—get into a stupid fight at a bar? Sure as hell feels like it." As he spoke, Dean clicked on the light, blinking at the sudden, harsh illumination. "What the hell, Sam? What happened to your face? Were we _both_ in a fight?"

"You don't remember?"

Dean pushed himself to his feet. "Remember what? I know we came back from the cemetery. I showered," Dean paused as he recalled the blast of inexplicable pain, "I guess things are a little fuzzy after that. Did I—we—go out? I feel like I've got a hangover from hell."

Sam felt his stiff shoulders drop a little at his older sibling's words, but he remained wary. "No, we . . . uh . . . we didn't go out. But, there _was_ a fight. Dean . . . you . . . you tried," Sam paused and cleared his throat, "you tried to kill me last night."

Thinking his sibling was making some kind of sick joke, Dean growled, "Sam, that's not even funny." He lurched forward a step, his knee objecting to the movement.

He watched in shock as Sam involuntarily flinched backward.

"You can't be serious! C'mon! Why're you messing with me?" There was a faint note of pleading in Dean's voice.

"Look at my bed."

"Huh?"

"Look in the middle of my bed."

Dean stepped over to Sam's bed and looked down. Not seeing anything at first, he looked at his brother and frowned, though he didn't say anything. Bending at the waist, he pulled aside the wadded bedding, wincing at the tug of pain in his hand. Dean sucked in a choked breath. There in the middle of the mattress was a deep gash hemorrhaging white polyester fill. He raised disbelieving eyes to his brother.

"I don't think you were in control," Sam muttered as he moved to the corner of the room and picked something up off the floor. He turned and held the item out for Dean to see.

The older man gasped and fell back a step as if from a blow when he saw the thick book neatly impaled with one of his own knives. His eyes shifted restlessly from the book to the bed and back to Sam's battered countenance. Dean then looked at his own bandaged right hand and put two-and-two together. He felt the blood drain from his face and he swayed, groping for the edge of the bed and lowering himself down before his suddenly shaky legs gave way.

"No—no—no—no," repeated Dean so rapidly that it sounded like a continuous moan, "I . . . I couldn't . . . couldn't . . . God, I couldn't have . . ." He locked his eyes on the obscenely defiled book Sam continued to hold. In his mind's eye, he envisioned the weapon embedded in his brother's chest instead. Slapping a hand over his mouth, Dean shot from the bed and ran for the bathroom as fast as he could. He made it just in time to lean over the toilet bowl before beginning to heave violently. His body folded in on itself, and he sank to the floor as his stomach continued to empty itself of nothing but bitter bile.

Hearing his sibling's distress, Sam shrugged off his remaining wariness and was about to go help when his cell phone rang. Tossing the book aside, he swiped the phone off the table.

"Yeah?"

"Sam?"

"Hey, Bobby. Have you found anything?"

"Ain't hardly had time, kid, but I'm workin' on it. I was callin' to check on _you_," Bobby's voice vibrated with worry.

"I'm fine."

"And Dean?"

"He doesn't remember much past coming back from the cemetery." Sam could hear Dean still choking and spitting into the toilet. "Bobby, I—" the younger man broke off when he heard an agonized cry from the bathroom. Not bothering to say goodbye or anything else, Sam hung up the phone and tossed it aside, even as his feet carried him rapidly across the room and into the tiny bathroom. There he found Dean writhing on the floor, hands clutching at his head.

The explosion of pain was back. Dean's vision was a fog of red as the agony rolled over him, swamping him. Clenching his teeth until he was sure they were going to crack, he bit back additional screams and whimpers. He felt hands touch his back, and he arched away as they burned like fire. Just as the fog of red started to darken to black, the agony vanished. Dean stilled, except for the shivers quaking through his body. In the pain's wake, he felt incredibly, bone-chillingly cold. His teeth remained clenched to keep them from chattering.

"Dean? Dean, can you hear me?" Sam frantically reached for his brother again.

Dean let out a soft moan, but didn't answer.

"Hey, bro, let's get you off the floor and outta the bathroom." The taller man stood and reached down to help his brother up. He was taken aback when Dean flung himself away from his touch and ended up curled in the corner where the tub met the wall.

"Get away!"

"What? Dean, c'mon," Sam's soothing voice was laced with concern, "you're shaking like mad, let's get you out of here."

"NO! Get away f-f-from me, S-S-Sammy," Dean pushed himself further into the corner, "Not safe. Tried t-t-to kill you."

Sam heart climbed into his throat at the dire self-recrimination he heard in Dean's voice. "It wasn't you. I know it wasn't _you_, Dean. Let's get out of this damn bathroom, and we can figure out what's going on." Sam's voice brooked no argument.

Dean knew he had to protect his sibling, but he had no strength to argue. Half his tremors were from the aftermath of the pain, the other half were from the cold. He was so cold, in fact, that it felt like there was ice clogging his veins. He allowed his brother to help him up and lead him back to his bed. Dean watched as Sam rummaged through his duffel and extracted some clothes.

"Let's get you dressed."

"I c-c-can do it." Dean reached for the jeans first and pulled them on. He then quickly changed t-shirts and donned a long-sleeved shirt, following up with a pair of socks. His tremors began to ease somewhat, though he gratefully accepted the blanket Sam held out next. Wrapping it around his upper body, he leaned back against the headboard.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

Sam eyed his brother, noting his still unhealthy pallor. "Can you tell me what happened? I mean, I heard you throwing up. But what happened after that?"

"Pain." Dean's voice was so low, the younger man barely heard it.

Sam swallowed and said, "Pain? What kind of pain?"

"Bad pain. Everywhere. Can't explain it," Dean hated the vulnerability he heard in his voice and fought to extinguish it. "It's just there—out of the blue—and then gone just as fast. Like before."

"What do you mean like before?" demanded Sam, "When did this happen before?"

Kicking himself for letting that slip out, Dean muttered, "Earlier in the shower."

Sam ran his hands over his face. "And you didn't bother to tell me this?"

The elder Winchester shrugged and glanced away.

Frustrated, Sam growled, "Damn it. Always too big and bad to admit to anything, huh? Sonuvabitch."

Knowing his brother must really be getting pissed to start swearing like that, Dean looked at him and mumbled, "It happened so fast, I thought . . . I almost thought maybe I'd imagined it."

Feeling bad for snapping at his brother, Sam raised his hand in a placating fashion. "Sorry. Look, I think it has to be connected to what happened earlier."

"You mean when I tried to kill you—my own brother—the brother I'm supposed to protect?" Dean said his voice bitter and thick with remorse.

Sam scowled at him. "It wasn't you, Dean. I'm sure of that. It's all got to be connected. We just have to figure out how. I gotta let Bobby know."

"Bobby?"

"Yeah, I called him. He's already working on it." Sam located his phone which he'd dropped earlier. Before he could dial, Dean interrupted him.

"We need to protect you. We need to keep you safe . . . safe from me." It broke Dean's heart to say those words.

"Dean—"

"Lock me up. Lock me in the car. Knock me out. I don't care."

Sam turned his back and dialed his cell phone. Bobby picked up on the first ring.

"Jesus, Sam, you about gave this old man a heart attack. What happened?"

Sam quickly conveyed to Bobby the attacks of excruciating pain Dean endured—both recently and earlier in the shower. He then listened quietly as Bobby unknowingly repeated almost verbatim Dean's words from moments ago.

"I'm on my way, Sam. You're gonna need help. I don't know yet what we're up against, but you're definitely gonna need help. I'm three hours out."

"All right. We're in Room 113 at the Best Rest Motel. See you when you get here then." Sam disconnected and flipped the phone closed.

"Bobby's on his way?" asked Dean.

"Yeah. He'll be here in three hours or so."

Dean breathed a short sigh of relief that Sam would soon have back up. "Handcuffs."

"What?"

"There are handcuffs in the trunk. I want you to handcuff me to the bed."

"Dean, I don't . . ."

"You have to. Until we know what's happening." Dean stopped speaking and tilted his head to the side, a quizzical look creeping over his face.

"Dean?"

"Don't you hear that?" he whispered.

"Hear what?"

"That humming. It's so loud."

Recalling Dean mumbling something earlier about humming, Sam found himself sprinting for the Impala and the handcuffs that lay within.


	5. Two Bloody Blades

Author's Note: The Roman secespita was a ritual knife that was used for sacrifice.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Avin's lips twisted into a depraved smile as she painted a circle of black rose, poppy, and hemlock oil onto her small alter using a black crow's feather. A sprinkling of moist grave dirt within the circle followed.

She reverently picked up her glittering secespita, from its resting place of honor. Most ceremonial knives of this sort had elaborately carved ebony handles, but hers was all silver, with small, intricate, and fiendish symbols etched along the entire length of the weapon. Its double-edged blade was crusted with luscious dried blood—the sandy-haired man's blood. She ran a finger lightly over the congealed stain and brought the knife to her mouth. Avin pursed her lips and kissed the dagger before darting her tongue out to moisten and lick away a tiny portion of bodily fluid. She sighed as a rush of dark energy quivered through her muscles. Her only regret was that there wasn't more crimson on the secespita. But she had plans to remedy that. More blood would allow her more control—perhaps even complete and permanent control—whether he was dead or alive. Her smile grew wider, and if possible, more corrupt.

Avin whispered a few profane incantations directly over the knife, her breath briefly fogging and obscuring the gleam. When she was done, she laid the knife down in the center of the circle before gliding across the room and picking up her mirror once more.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam was just outside the door to Room 113, handcuffs in hand, when he realized two things simultaneously—he had been in such a hurry that he'd raced outside buck naked except for his navy boxers, and, worse yet, he'd left Dean alone in the room with a variety of weapons.

_Ah, crap! Get your head out of your ass, Winchester. You freakin' idiot._

Continuing to mentally berate himself for his inattention, Sam spun around and jogged back to the Impala, cursing when he stepped on a particularly jagged piece of gravel. He reopened the trunk, lifted the false bottom out of the way, and yanked out one of the shotguns. After checking to see that it was loaded with rock salt, he closed the trunk and turned toward the motel once more, now somewhat satisfied that he wouldn't be going back into the situation completely cold and ill prepared.

Sam held the shotgun in his right hand and gently pushed open the door, which was still ajar, with his left. He entered the room without a sound, yet couldn't stifle the sharp intake of air at the sight that met his eyes. Dean stood on the far side of the room holding the knife from earlier, having pulled it from the mortally wounded book which now lay haphazardly discarded on the table next to his laptop. His brother was staring intently at the blade, gory with his own blood.

Sam tensed and pulled in a quick gulp of air, expecting another attack.

He noted then that Dean's wounded hand was unwrapped, the stained gauze snagged on his thumb with the ends fluttering on either side. The wound was drawing Dean's attention as much as the knife.

"Dean? Dean, put the knife down." His brother visibly jumped at the sound of his voice, but continued to stare at the weapon for another moment.

Dean was lost in a sea of self-recrimination when he heard Sam's demand. He finally pulled his wayward thoughts together and glanced at his brother, a miserable look in his eyes. He said, "I'm sorry. It's okay, Sam. I was just . . . just . . ." Dean's voice died mid-comment.

Still alert, Sam responded, "You were just what?"

A strange flicker rippled across the older hunter's face before it emptied of all expression. Without warning, Dean extended his left hand and began slashing at his right arm. In a matter of seconds, he cut himself five or six times with the well-honed blade. The blank mien on his face never wavered, nor did he utter a sound.

"Dean, no!" Sam yelled in horror, even as he was moving toward his brother. Abandoning the shotgun and handcuffs, Sam bent at the waist and drove his shoulders into Dean, tackling him to the floor. They grappled for a moment before Sam was able to manacle the wrist of the arm holding the knife. Though he hated to do it, Sam squeezed hard, grinding the bones together until the knife toppled from his brother's numb hand and bounced on the dingy carpet.

They struggled for a few more minutes, Sam's nose getting bloodied again in the process. He started to use the palm of his hand to wipe away the viscous fluid from his upper lip but stopped when he had to deflect his brother's elbow. Several drops of blood from his nose rained down, smearing across Dean's lips and into his mouth. Sam grimaced at the sight.

After a few seconds, Dean shuddered, let out a groan, and went lax.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was rife with concern at his brother's sudden stillness.

"Dude, what the hell? Got off me, you ox. I can't breathe," Dean wheezed.

Sam rolled off his brother and onto his knees. Still panting from the struggle, he huffed, "Let me see your arm."

The prone man scowled and sat up. "What? Why do you want to see my arm?"

"Because you're bleeding all over the place!" Sam automatically reached for the injured limb.

"I am n—" Dean was astounded to see the blood-soaked sleeve covering his right arm and his jaw dropped. Fiery pain blossomed just about the same moment his brain processed the truth about what his eyes were seeing. He let out a gasp and instinctively tried to pull his arm from Sam's clutches in order to cradle it against his body.

"Take it easy, man. Let's get you on the bed, and I'll take a closer look." Sam helped Dean to his feet, mindful of his injuries old and new, and eased him onto his bed. "I'll get the kit." Before he could move, his sibling's left hand wrapped around his wrist.

"Cuffs first."

"Dean, no, you're hurt! I . . ."

The elder hunter shook his head. "Handcuff me to the bed first," he ordered.

Sam hesitated for another fraction of a second.

"If you don't, I'll get up and walk out right now." There was a glint of steel in his eyes, temporarily masking the flashes of pain from moments ago.

Taking the growled threat for what it was, an effort by his big brother to keep him safe, Sam acquiesced and retrieved the handcuffs, ratcheting one circle in place around Dean's left wrist and the other around a sturdy bed post. Seeing his brother relax a bit as the cuff snapped shut, Sam stood and fetched their first aid supplies—yet again—and returned to the bed. Pulling a pair of EMT trauma shears from the kit, Sam cut away the grisly cloth and surveyed the six gashes crisscrossing Dean's arm.

"Damn. A couple of these are gonna need stitches."

Dean laid his head back against the headboard, wearily closed his eyes, and muttered, "Whatever. Just do it." He was quiet for a moment. "What the hell happened anyway?"

"You don't remember anything?"

The older man shook his head. "I . . . I was staring at the book—thinking about how I almost sta—" Dean swallowed miserably, unable to voice the rest.

As Sam gathered the supplies he needed and made short work of disinfecting and cleaning the wounds, he described to Dean what he saw upon his return to the motel room. Once the cleaning was done, he threaded the curved needle and steadied himself to begin suturing. He glanced at his brother. "You ready?"

A clipped nod was his only answer. Sam felt the Dean's muscles tense. He knew better than to instruct him to try and relax, choosing instead to simply start stitching. He winced in sympathy every single time Dean jerked as the needle pierced his skin. Sam finished suturing as rapidly as he could. He felt almost as sick as his big brother looked by the time he was done. Though field medicine was a necessary skill for hunters, Sam never liked the idea he was causing his only sibling—the one person he always looked up to—pain. Using the last of the gauze, Sam bandaged his brother's wounds, including the one inflicted earlier on his hand.

The young hunter handed Dean three painkillers and a glass of water before quickly cleaning up the mess he'd made treating Dean's newest round of injuries. With that done, he paused in the bathroom long enough to wash the blood off his face and hands before pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Returning to the main room, he asked, "You need anything?"

Eyes bleary with pain, Dean muttered, "Uh . . . no. Wait . . . yeah . . . can you give me a sweatshirt?"

Sam grabbed a sweatshirt out of Dean's bag and helped him into it, releasing the handcuff just long enough for Dean to slip his arm through the sleeve. When he was done, he handed Dean a blanket. "I'm gonna get on the computer, see if I can find anything. Are you okay?"

"Yah, I'm fine. Just hand me the remote."

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

"Hey, Sam?"

At Dean's soft call, Sam looked up from the computer screen. "Yeah?" He squinted at his watch and realized he'd been absorbed in his fruitless research for about 40 minutes.

"You think you could go pick us up some coffee? It's really cold in here."

It wasn't cold in the room, but Sam could see his brother shivering despite the blanket wrapped around him.

"Oh—yeah—sorry, man, I shoulda thought of that sooner. You want something to eat too?" Sam words were punctuated by a growl from his own stomach.

"Nah. Just bring me some coffee. Make that two large coffees."

"All right. I'm gonna stop and get some more stuff for our first aid kit too. I'll be back in 45 minutes or so. You sure you'll be okay?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Just go, Sammy."

The tall, lithe Winchester donned socks and boots and scooped up the keys to the car. He tossed one more concerned look at his brother, but found Dean's eyes trained on the television screen, though Sam was positive he wasn't paying the least bit of attention to what was there. He pulled on his jacket as he strode through the door.

As promised, Sam was back within the time he'd allotted. Carefully balancing the coffee, a bag of donuts, and the bag of supplies from the drug store, he entered the room and was relieved to see that Dean had fallen into a light doze. His brother stirred and opened his eyes when Sam thumped the door shut with his foot.

Sam put the first aid supplies and donuts down first. He removed the lid on one of the black coffees and took it over to Dean straightaway.

"I brought some donuts. You want one?"

Dean hesitated, not feeling particularly hungry.

Seeing his sibling's hesitation, Sam counseled, "You should eat something, you know. I even bought you a couple of those custard-filled ones."

His brother continued to sip his hot coffee but finally gave a half-smile. "All right. All right. You convinced me. Hand me one."

Sam extracted one of Dean's favorites from the bag and handed it over, pleased to see him immediately take a healthy bite. Satisfied, he pulled out the first of his two donuts and picked up his milk-and-sugar infused coffee. Sam was just about done eating when his cell phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Sam, it's Bobby."

The younger Winchester spun around and made eye contact with his brother. "Hey, Bobby."

"Sam, listen. Go check your brother's shoulder. The one that was cut last night in the cemetery."

"What? Why?"

"Just do it. Call me back and tell me what it looks like."

Sam hung up the phone and walked over to Dean, who set aside his coffee and the uneaten half of his donut. "Bobby wants me to check the cut on your shoulder." With Dean's limited assistance, Sam pushed aside the layers of clothing and finally exposed the bandaged cut. He carefully removed the bandage. Sam had expected wound to maybe be a little pink or red, but he wasn't prepared for what he saw. The skin all around the cut was an odd, mottled silver-gray color. He quickly dialed Bobby's number.

"It's all gray. All around the cut, it's like a weird silver-gray color."

Bobby grunted. "Damn. I think I might know what's going on—what's after your brother. Give me ten minutes and I'll call you back."


	6. Come

After hanging up the phone, Sam recovered Dean's eerie looking shoulder wound with fresh gauze and pulled his shirts and blanket back into place.

"Do I wanna know?" murmured Dean.

"What?"

"The look on your face. Do I want to know what's up with the freaky ass wound on my shoulder?" 

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't know anything yet. Bobby said he might know what's going on and would call back in ten minutes."

"Oh." Dean laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

The younger man began to pace the circumference of the room, his long legs eating up the small space. When Bobby's 10 minutes turned into 20, Sam's nerves stretched even more taut, his pacing picked up speed, and he started to gnaw on the nail of his index finger.

"Dude, enough with the pacing, you're making me dizzy."

At his brother's grumbled complaint, Sam immediately stopped and fixed a concerned gaze on Dean, who now had his eyes squeezed shut and was pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I think," Dean's hand suddenly dropped to the edge of the mattress where it curled into a white-knuckled grip. "Whoa—guess it wasn't you."

"Dean?"

After a second, the elder Winchester let go and raised his hand, palm out, toward his little brother. "I'm good. It's gone." He shivered. "Is that other coffee still hot?"

Sam retrieved the second extra-large cup of coffee he'd purchased earlier. "It's still pretty warm." He was handing Dean the cup when his cell phone rang. Sam dived for the phone before making sure Dean had a good grip on the cup, resulting in a mini-cascade of warm brown liquid finding its way down the front of Dean's shirt. He mouthed an apology to his brother as he yanked the phone open and threw it up to his ear.

"Bobby?"

"Sam," began Bobby, "I think it's . . . she's . . . an Encantora."

"A what?"

"An Encantora. A type of extremely powerful dark witch. And if I'm right, she's got a blood curse goin' on Dean."

"A blood curse?"

"He's lucky she only managed to scratch him."

Sam looked at his brother's too pale face and thought of the numerous stitches and bandages covering his arm. "Yeah, right. Lucky."

"I'm serious, Sam. If she had managed to inflict a worse wound, one with more blood, there may not have been anything we could have done."

The younger man's breath hitched.

"I'm waiting to hear from a couple of more people so I should know more by the time I get there—which should be in about 45 minutes."

"All right. Good. I'll See ya then."

"Hey, Sam, be careful. This is some bad shit. Really bad."

With Bobby's warning ringing in his head, Sam hung up the phone.

Dean raised an eyebrow and said, "So what did Bobby have to say?"

"He said that it's an Encantora—some kind of really powerful witch. She . . . uh . . . he says she put a blood curse on you." Sam sat down at the tiny table and booted up his laptop, deciding to do some research of his own.

A frustrated grunt worked its way past Dean's lips. "Well, ain't that just swell."

Silence fell while Sam delved into researching Encantoras and Dean sipped his rapidly cooling coffee and tried to keep the shivers wracking his body at bay. Eventually giving up on the coffee, Dean dropped the cup on the nightstand and pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders, wishing for nothing more at the moment than a spark of warmth.

The quiet lulled him into a light, if short-lived, doze. Dean awoke a little later to the urgent twinge of a full bladder. "Hey, Sam?" he croaked.

His brother looked up from the web page he'd been studying and saw Dean squirming a little on the bed. "Yeah?"

"I . . . need to go to the bathroom." Dean shrugged off the blanket and eyed the handcuff around his wrist.

Sam palmed the tiny handcuff key and cautiously released the silver circlet around Dean's wrist. He followed his brother to the bathroom door, but stopped when Dean made a stopping motion with his hand.

"Personal space, dude. Personal space. I can take it from here."

The taller man backed off with a sheepish smile. "Just worried about you, jerk."

"Bitch."

Dean smiled and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door with a soft thud. He quickly took care of business and was washing his hands when he heard it.

_Come_.

The word was accompanied by that peculiar humming he'd heard previously. Dean tried desperately to block it out, even placing his hands over his ears.

_Come_.

The hunter tried some humming of his own, something by Metallica, but it was no use. The serpentine sound wove its way through his head, dampening rational thought.

Sam stood leaning against the wall in case his brother needed him. He was relieved to see the bathroom door open just a few minutes later. He wasn't prepared, however, for Dean to burst from the small room, shove him—hard—into the wall and make a run for the door.

_Ah, shit_. "Dean!"

Shaking off his shock, Sam took off after his brother, grateful for his longer legs that would allow him to catch up rapidly with the running man.

"Dean!"

He saw his older brother stumble over a piece of debris in the parking lot and took advantage of the opportunity. With a burst of speed, he caught up. A flying tackle brought Dean down to the ground, his chin scraping across the pavement. The shorter man began to struggle mightily, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

"Stop!" shouted Sam.

The command had the opposite effect, and Dean began to buck wildly, determined to throw him off. Guttural noises were torn from his throat.

Sam adjusted his position so that he was lying flat out on top of Dean. "Damn it, Dean—stop it!" he pleaded.

The older man continued to fight even though he was weakening.

Bobby found them, still struggling, when he pulled into the parking lot.


	7. A Mottled, Maggoty Face

Avin shrieked in unadulterated frustration as her connection to the sweet-blooded young man, her dawl, again faded then snapped completely, albeit temporarily. It was all the taller man's fault. He somehow grounded her dawl, preventing him from doing everything she wanted him to do. Invective flowed copiously past her lips like the Niagara River pouring over the Falls.

She could not lose this one. His strength and determination, his very fierceness was too exceptional. Avin was determined to control such an exemplary specimen now that she'd had a taste of him. She needed to strengthen the curse. For now, she could boost its power with a different blend of incantations, but what she really needed was more of the dawl's blood. If she couldn't get him to come to her, then she'd have to send something after him. Closing her eyes, Avin allowed a full blown smirk to upturn her lips as she contemplated her next move.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

With a screech of overstressed tires, Bobby Singer threw his battered pickup truck into 'Park' and bounded from the cab, rushing to the two prone men on the ground.

"What in holy hell's goin' on?" he barked.

Sam stiffened upon hearing a voice intrude into their struggle, until he recognized the gruff tone. Relieved, he relaxed slightly and drew in a breath before panting, "Bobby, thank God, help me get him back inside." The lanky man rolled off of Dean, who was now still except for his heaving chest as he drew in harsh, ragged breaths. The tall hunter quickly pushed himself to his feet.

Following young Winchester's lead, Bobby reached down and wrapped a strong hand around Dean's upper arm. Together they pulled the afflicted man to his feet and supported him when his knees started to buckle.

Throwing an arm around his brother's waist, Sam prompted, "C'mon, big brother, let's get you back to the room." He could feel Dean shuddering underneath his supportive touch.

"S-S-Sam, G-G-God, S-Sammy, I don't feel so good," Dean slurred.

"I know, I know. You can lay down when we get back in the room."

The trio made their way across the parking lot and back to the motel, with more and more of Dean's weight being carried by the other two men after each step. They deposited him on the bed and re-secured the needed precaution of a handcuff around his wrist.

Sam grimaced when he saw the road rash decorating his brother's chin. "Your chin's a mess, bro. I gotta clean it up a little."

Dean didn't say anything, just closed his eyes and laid his head on the pillow, face turned toward his little brother's voice. Before Sam could make a move to get a wet wash cloth, Bobby was already handing him one, along with the ice bucket half full of warm water and their half-empty bottle of peroxide.

"Thanks," murmured Sam. He gently wiped at Dean's raw, oozing chin. Once it looked fairly clean, he poured hydrogen peroxide generously over the nasty scrape, catching the runoff with the bloodstained washcloth. He watched it bubble and froth white as it tackled any remaining dirt and germs picked up from the motel parking lot. Sam did a quick inspection of Dean's injuries from earlier and was pleased to see that no stitches had been torn during their most recent tussle. He sighed and wearily ran his hand down his face, wishing he could scour away some of the worry etched there.

Noticing how drawn and shaky the younger man looked, Bobby asked, "Sam, when did you two last eat or drink something—something substantial, I mean?"

"I dunno. Right before you first called, I guess. We had some doughnuts and coffee."

"Yeah, I figured as much. Listen, I could really use some coffee and food myself. Why don't I go pick something up for us? When I get back we'll talk."

Sam rubbed at his temples. "Uh . . . yeah . . . yeah, okay. Probably would be a good idea. There's a . . . a diner just up the street."

"You want anything in particular?"

"Nah, I don't care. Just . . . if you could bring something cold to drink. For me, at least. I'm not sure about Dean—he's freezing. But I don't think more coffee'd be good for him."

"How about l bring him some hot chocolate?"

"Thanks, Bobby. I really appreciate it."

The older man left, with a throaty promise to return shortly.

Sam looked at his brother, who still had his eyes closed. Except for the ever-present shivering, he hadn't moved since they'd laid him down, not even when Sam had cleaned the painful abrasion. "Dean, how you doin', man?"

A soft grunt was his only answer for a moment before Dean finally muttered, "Head hurts. Shoulder feels like it's on fire. F-Feel sick."

The fact that Dean hadn't reverted to his typical "I'm fine" like he usually did definitely heightened Sam's anxiety level.

"Bobby's gone to get us some food. You think you can eat?"

"Uh . . . uh . . . no. Don't think so." He swallowed thickly.

"He's bringing you some hot chocolate too," Sam paused, "At least it'll be something warm."

"Uh huh."

Sam covered his brother with a couple of blankets, then cleaned up the small mess he'd made treating Dean, stopping in the bathroom long enough to splash water on his face and wash his hands. After downing a couple of painkillers to combat his own interminate headache, he called out to Dean.

"Think you can keep a couple of painkillers down?"

"Can try," Dean mumbled.

He helped his older brother sit up just enough to pop the two pills in his mouth and chase them down with a sip of tepid water. The elder hunter moaned a little when the pills and water settled uneasily in his queasy stomach.

Sam gently squeezed Dean's uninjured shoulder a gesture of support and comfort. Leaving him to rest, he shuffled over to the table and slumped in the chair in front of his computer. Sam closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to relax his tense muscles and will the medication he'd just swallowed to hurry and work its way through his system at the same time.

In that desperate moment of forced relaxation, he wasn't prepared for the frigid air that unexpectedly plummeted the temperature of the room into sub-zero levels. His eyes snapped open and immediately sought out his brother. Horror filled him as he took in the distinct shape of a ghastly female spirit zeroing in on Dean. Her tattered garments fluttered wildly in her self-generated gale.

"What the fu—" Instinct kicked in and Sam immediately flew out of his chair, diving for the shotgun loaded with rock salt. Just as his fingertips brushed the stock, the creature snapped her head around to glare at him with ink-shadowed, empty eyes. With an earthshaking squeal, she sent him flying backward. Sam grunted when his head and shoulder connected painfully with the far wall. He crumpled limply to the ground.

With a second effort that would have made a football running back proud, Sam pushed himself to his knees and propelled himself forward, lunging once more for the shotgun. Straightening and swinging the gun into position in one uninterrupted move, Sam cringed as he saw Dean writhing beneath the spirit's loathsome touch, his back arching off the bed, as she drilled a hand into his injured shoulder. His agonized cries, sounding through clenched teeth, were both hideous and heartbreaking to hear.

"Get the hell away from my brother, you bitch!" Sam pulled the trigger, unloading both barrels of rock salt directly into the center of Dean's tormenter.

With an enraged scream emanating from her mottled, maggoty face, she dissipated into a thousand tendrils of fiendish ebony mist and disappeared.


	8. Salt Circles and Comfort Food

Bobby arrived back at the small, dreary motel room to find a clearly more agitated Sam Winchester hastily pouring a generous circle of salt around his brother's bed. Dean, meanwhile, lay deathly still in the center of the bed, his complexion ash gray—a tight white line of pain circling his lips. His eyes were slammed closed.

"Shit. What happened?" the bearded man muttered, kicking the door shut behind him. He divested himself of the bags of food and borrowed room key before turning again toward the two boys.

"Salt the windows and door." Sam tossed the container of salt at Bobby, who caught it easily and proceeded to do as ordered.

While he was busy doing that, the younger man moved to check on Dean. At his soft touch to Dean's injured shoulder, his big brother's eyes flew open, ferocity and fear battling within their depths.

"Sorry, bro, it's just me." He reached out and removed the rest of the now-ragged gauze, which was again stained with blood due to the foul-looking spirit's attack. A savage growl rattled in his throat when he saw the additional damage done to the wound. The eerie silver-gray color had also spread, encompassing a greater portion of his shoulder.

"Damn it." Sam's chin dropped to his chest as guilt settled too comfortably on his shoulders. He felt like he'd let his brother down.

Always able to read Sam even when sick or in pain, Dean breathed out, " 'sokay, Sammy. Couldn'ta known."

Dean's absolution did nothing to lighten the big-bottomed load of guilt riding gleefully on Sam's shoulders. He nodded insincerely. Acting on autopilot at this point, Sam cleaned up Dean's shoulder and made sure he was settled before turning to Bobby, who was now seated at the small table pulling Styrofoam containers of food from the brown paper bags. The soothing scent of hot food filled the room, gradually overcoming the faint odor of decay that had settled in upon the spirit's unexpected arrival.

Bobby dropped Sam's meal, drink, and plastic utensils on the table in front of the empty chair and then held out a separate smaller paper bag.

"I brought Dean a grilled cheese sandwich," he gestured toward a cup on the table, "and the hot chocolate." Bobby grimaced. "Not exactly a stellar combination, but the kid needs to eat something. And so do you. Give him his and get your rear over here in this chair."

Sam took the still warm, foil-wrapped sandwich along with the hot drink and moved over to occupied bed.

"Dean? Think you can eat some of this?"

Despite his misery, Dean whispered, "I'll . . . try."

Sam helped his brother sit up, slouched against the headboard. He peeled away half the foil and handed the sandwich over to Dean, nodding in satisfaction when the other man at least began to nibble at a corner. Sam put the hot chocolate down on the nightstand within easy reach.

Walking to the table, he sank wearily onto his chair and, picking up a fork, opened the Styrofoam container in front of him. Sam stared unenthusiastically at the food inside.

"I brought both of us the meatloaf special. It ain't half bad," Bobby shared, after swallowing a bite. "What happened, kid?"

Sam took a couple of bites of his own before running a shaky hand through his hair. "A nasty spirit attacked him, Bobby. Nasty as in maggot-ridden, not just disposition. I was sitting right here and she was just suddenly _there_, attacking him—doing something to his shoulder."

"Damn. I should have seen that coming," Bobby rasped. Underneath the bill of his ever-present baseball cap, his eyes were full of regret.

Tossing down his fork, Sam exclaimed, "I need to know what's going on, Bobby! What else did you learn before you got here?"

Bobby pointed to Sam's fork and glared, waiting patiently until the younger man picked it up and resumed eating. Then he started to speak.

"All right. I already told you that we're dealing with an Encantora—an extremely powerful dark witch. But I think she's also an animator."

"An animator? What's that mean?"

"Listen. Encantora's like to control. They can place these blood curses on living human beings and, basically, make them do whatever they want."

"You mean like zombies?"

Bobby dipped his bearded chin forward. "More like a doll. Actually, that's what the victims are called—dolls. Except it's spelled d-a-w-l. Dawls. From what I hear, think of it as a really bad—more like really evil—spoiled child playing with a living, breathing, life-size doll."

"So what's the animator part?"

"Encantora's who are also animators can control their dawls regardless of whether they're alive or dead. They can also summon and control a whole host of spooks—phantasms, shades, revenants—you name it."

At Bobby's chilling words, the tall man's stomach clenched. Having finished a little more than half his food, Sam again abandoned his fork, this time permanently.

"So the thing that attacked Dean was . . ." started Sam.

Bobby nodded and finished the sentence. "Being controlled by the Encantora who's after him. Since the spirit specifically went after the shoulder injured by the secespita—"

"The what?"

"Secespita. They are the Encantora's weapon of choice. It's an ancient Roman ritual knife. It's . . . uh . . . specifically used for . . . sacrifice."

Sam's face paled at the word sacrifice.

The older man continued, "Since the thing specifically went after that wound, I'm guessing the Encantora is after more of Dean's blood."

"Why?"

Bobby shrugged. "Best guess—to further cement the curse. If she's a newly minted Encantora, she may need a greater amount of blood to exercise complete control. You stopped him from going to her, so obviously she's trying something else."

"But why Dean?"

"I think the spirit you were up against earlier at the cemetery was one of her animations. This all could be nothing more than that she's pissed off because you guys ruined her fun."

"Fun?" yelped Sam, "This is _**fun**_ to them?"

Before Bobby could respond, a rough scratching sounded at the window. Seconds later, the same scritch-scratch noise simultaneously started at the door.

Sam abruptly stood and spun toward his brother, who was restlessly dozing, the partially eaten sandwich dangling from lax fingers. "Shit! She's sent more after him!"

Rising to his feet, Bobby placed a calming hand on Sam's shoulder. "Take it easy. We're okay—Dean's okay—behind the salt lines."

The lanky hunter's muscles remained tense as the frenzied scratching picked up in speed and volume. After several long, strained minutes, the scratching stopped as suddenly as it had started. Sam heaved out an unnerved breath and looked, trustingly, at their close family friend and mentor.

"So, Bobby, what do we do now?" asked Sam, "How do we get Dean out of this damned blood curse?" He was completely unprepared for Bobby's answer.

"I don't know."


	9. The One with a Gratuitous Shower Scene

"You don't know?" Sam's voice rose, "What do you mean you don't know?" In his state of agitation and frustration, Sam was barely able to control himself and not lunge at Bobby.

Seeing Sam's tight face and clenched fists, Bobby held up his hands peaceably and grumbled, "Now hold on there, Rocky Balboa. I don't know—_yet_. There are some theories out there. I'm waiting for a call back from someone I trust. He'll know for sure."

Sam relaxed his hands and sighed out an apology. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm just . . . I'm scared—for Dean."

Bobby gazed sympathetically at the tall hunter, who, at that exact moment, looked far younger than his years. "I know, son. I know. You may not believe it, but I am too."

Glancing over at his brother, Sam said, "I have a feeling Dean's running out of time. When is this guy supposed to call you back?"

"Should be anytime now. Why don't you go take a shower? Try and relax a little. I'll clean up and keep watch."

Not knowing what else to do, Sam ran a hand over his face and nodded in agreement. He walked to the bathroom, shutting the door softly instead of giving in to the urge to slam it shut. After turning on the water, Sam stripped quickly, stepped into the small tub, and snapped the orange shower curtain closed. Adjusting the nozzle to better accommodate his height, he ducked his head beneath the rushing spray and let the water soak his longish hair. With strong, slender fingers Sam massaged his scalp, easing away the last of his headache. The cascade of hot water also helped loosen tight muscles that were bruised and sore from his recent encounters with Dean. Resting his palms on the green-tiled wall, arms straight, Sam leaned forward, closed his eyes, and purposely blanked his mind of all thought. He stood that way for several minutes, simply breathing deeply. Finally feeling more steady and in control, Sam soaped up, rinsed, and terminated the flow of water with a hasty twist of the metal knob.

He quickly toweled off with the only dry towel left in the bathroom, combed his fingers through his still-damp dark hair, and re-dressed. After a moment of hesitation, Sam grabbed his toothbrush, squeezed a generous bead of mint Colgate on the bristles, and energetically brushed his teeth—if for no other reason than that it felt absolutely normal. After spitting and rinsing, he returned to the outer room, pleased and hopeful to see Bobby on the telephone.

Sam checked on Dean, who was still asleep, before sitting down on the edge of his own bed to wait for Bobby to finish.

The conversation ended a few minutes later.

"Was that the guy?" The words were out of Sam's mouth before Singer had time to flip his cell phone closed.

"Yeah, that was him."

"So what do we have to do?"

"You aren't gonna like it."

"Bobby, tell me," demanded Sam, "What do we have to do?" 

The older man sighed. "This guy says that if the Encantora summons Dean again, and you and I know she will, we have to let him go."

"WHAT? No. No way. That's crazy. Bobby, look at him!" Sam gestured toward his sleeping brother. "He's too sick. For God's sake, he can barely stay awake anymore, let alone stand and go anywhere. We can't just let him walk into a trap!"

"That's why we have to follow him."

"But if she gets her hands on him—"

"Sam, we don't have a choice. We can take care of the Encantora, but that alone won't save Dean. We need to get our hands on that secespita. It's essential to breaking the curse."

Worry painted itself across Sam's expressive face. He didn't like this plan at all.

"How's he even gonna make it to her?"

"She's an animator, remember? She'll pretty much be in control of his movements. Believe me, she'll give him enough strength to get to her."

"God, I hate this. I feel like I'm sending a lamb to its slaughter." Sam slumped down on his bed.

"H-Heard that, Sam-my. C'mon. A l-l-lamb? Way to insult your b-bad-ass big brother."

Surprised, Sam looked up to see Dean gazing at him with tired, bleary eyes. There was a ghost of a smile curving his mouth.

"So you heard what Bobby says we have to do?"

"Yeah."

"Dean, I don't—"

"Gotta do it."

"But—"

"N-No choice, Sam."

Even when he was sick, the implacable Winchester stubbornness rang through loud and clear in Dean's tone. Sam knew—had known all along—that it wasn't an argument he could win. He sighed and looked at Bobby.

"So, what, we just wait around now for her to call him?"

"Yeah, that," Bobby nodded, "and we prepare what we need to get rid of her."

"And that would be?"

"Eventually, a consecrated iron round to the head _and_ the heart."

When Sam grimaced, Bobby grumbled, "Gotta remember she's no longer human, Sam. She's gonna look as human as you or I, but she's not. She gave it up when she chose to become an Encantora."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. What else do we need?"

"Rock salt rounds in case she conjures any spirits to use against us. Skullcap, lavender, and Holy water. And I need to find the correct unbinding spell."

"Let's get to it then," muttered Sam.

The next hour passed quietly, if not quickly, as the younger man gathered together the various items they needed while Bobby poured over a collection of his books looking for that unbinding spell.

"Got it!" exclaimed Bobby suddenly, shattering the charged silence into which they had fallen. He pointed a finger at the page in front of him.

Sam bounded up from where he was sitting on the bed. Nervous energy radiated off of him in waves. He read the spell over Bobby's shoulder. "So that's it—we have everything ready then?"

"We're good to go."

"Hey," whispered Dean, "you guys might wanna get rid of these then." He weakly rattled the handcuffs still anchoring him to the bed.

Marching around the bottom of the bed, Sam undid the lock mechanism and released the cuff from around his brother's wrist, rubbing gently, guiltily, at the red mark left behind.

"Bobby, how long do you think it'll be before she tries summoning him?"

"My guess is it won't be too long."

"You sure about this, Dean." Sam chewed at his bottom lip.

"Quit worrying, Sam. I . . . I know you guys got my back."

Dean's words were meant to sooth, but they fell on deaf ears. Sam would worry every second Dean was in danger. However, he wouldn't let it interfere with protecting Dean in every way imaginable. After all, he, too, was his father's son—a hunter—and had learned his lessons well.

Bobby's prediction that the Encantora wouldn't wait too much longer proved to be all too true. Not long after Sam had released the handcuff, Dean rocked forward, gasped, and grabbed at his head, moaning as a tidal wave of pain overtook him. After a few seconds, his hands dropped to his sides. With unnatural speed and alacrity given his physical condition, he gained his feet and sauntered across the room and out the door, never faltering. Never once looking back.

Sam and Bobby followed him out the door and slid into the waiting Impala. Noting the direction in which Dean headed, Sam started the car, calmed by its reassuring throaty rumble.

The elder Winchester paid absolutely no attention as the sleek, shiny black car followed him out of the parking lot and continued to keep pace with him as he hurried up the street.


	10. Where the Hell Did He Go?

Avin stared hard at her silvered mirror, never once blinking her cold, dispassionate eyes. Her milk-white skin, taut over angular bones, nearly glowed with an unholy luminescence. She smiled a full, wide—yet inherently evil—smile, revealing her mouthful of Chiclet-sized black teeth, each sharpened to a point; a legacy of her final transformation from completely human to . . . well, something not burdened by such ridiculous weakness.

The Encantora was quivering with anticipation. Her dawl was coming. Not only could she see him in the mirror, she could feel him—his energy like a static buzz—drawing closer. Hell, she could practically taste him. Avin wiped away the tiny, slick streamers of drool from the corners of her mouth with a crimson-tipped finger.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

The street the two men were traversing on the outskirts of town was not heavily traveled and the Impala only passed two cars on its surveillance journey.

Long fingers wrapped firmly around the steering wheel, Sam intently watched both the road in front of him and his brother, in turn. He cringed when saw Dean stumble clumsily over a curb and go down on one knee, then without hesitation, recover and continue on his way.

"How far do you think she'll make him go, Bobby?" inquired Sam nervously. Their motel had disappeared from the rearview mirror quite awhile ago.

"I honestly didn't think it would be far. This is something of a surprise."

They came to an intersection and Sam rolled slowly through the STOP sign, turning left when he saw Dean head in that direction. They were drawing closer to town and activity was picking up, making it a bit more difficult to both navigate and keep an eye on him. The tall hunter was grateful to have Bobby riding shotgun in the passenger seat.

At the next cross street, anchored on all four corners by a series of old, rundown-looking buildings, an oversized pink delivery truck with "Tiny Tidy Diaper Delivery" stenciled in blue on its side stuttered into the middle of the intersection where it promptly stalled, leaving the two hunters without a visual on Dean.

"Shit! Bobby, can you see him?"

"No. No, I can't see around the damned truck."

Sam pounded a fist on the steering wheel. "Can I get around it?"

"I don't see how in a boat like this Impala. He's taking up the whole friggin' intersection!"

Panicked, Sam laid on the horn and watched as the delivery truck driver stuck is arm out the window and nonchalantly flipped him the bird.

Sam rolled down the window and yelled, "C'mon! C'mon, buddy—I need to get by! It's an emergency!"

The burly man yelled back a several rude and crude words of his own and proceeded to use both hands to repeat the earlier obscene gesture, this time adding some vigorous up-and-down movements to his lewd message.

The tall, lanky man laid on the horn once more, not caring if he was further pissing off the truck driver. Long, tense moments passed as the two men heard the truck's engine sputter, cough, and wheeze before finally grinding to life with a belching roar. Sam barely allowed the truck enough time to lumber to the other side of the intersection before he hit the gas and sped across the road.

"Damn it. I don't see him. Bobby, do you see him anywhere?"

"No."

The younger hunter inched the big black car forward. He and Bobby whipped heir heads from side-to-side as they searched frantically for a glimpse of Dean's 6' 1" frame.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean, in full dawl mode, made his way to Avin, slowly ascending the stairs step by grueling step. The structure he was in, some sort of abandoned apartment building, was dank and dark, smelling of death, decay, and mold with the faintest whiff of acrid smoke lingering just beneath the other, stronger, odors. He reached the top step and shuffled his way forward, toward an incongruous oasis of sumptuousness amidst the ruin.

He was drawn inexorably toward the tall, slender woman situated in the heart of the fouled grandeur. Dean stopped directly in front of her and stood there shivering, shuddering, swaying; his synaptic nerve endings crackling with a constant and painful eddy of energy.

"Ahhh," breathed the Encantora, "my lovely, little dawl—you are finally here. I've been looking forward to this moment."

Avin stepped closer and with a sharp-bladed dagger, not her secespita, sliced through the layers of cloth covering his chest—not caring in the least that the tip of the honed blade deeply nicked his skin in several places.

Pushing aside the now-tattered clothing, she leaned in and ran her cold hands over his muscled chest, thoroughly enjoying the twitching and trembling she could feel beneath her fingertips. Straining even closer, she inhaled his unique scent. The freshly flowing blood added a piquant sweetness to his essence. Her voracious tongue darted out to lap at the numerous trickles of red, viscous fluid zigzagging down his upper body. The dawl moaned in pain as her slimy, acidic tongue made contact over and over with his skin.

It was Avin's turn to shudder—in this instance in orgasmic ecstasy at the taste of his garnet-colored lifeblood. It was far better, far more intoxicating, than the miniscule amount of dried blood currently decorating her secespita. After several long, slow licks, Avin reluctantly pulled away. She didn't bother wiping away the fluid clotting on her lips. The Encantora grinned ruefully and shook her head.

"To think I merely wanted you to be my dawl. To control you and make you act out my every whim. Yet I knew the moment I placed that blood curse that you were different. Special. And I developed quite a craving for you. Your blood. Your essence. Your spirit. Your very soul."

Avin glided over to her cluttered altar and picked up her secespita, its silvery shine gleaming malevolently in the muted light. She turned again to face the insensate man standing immobile exactly where she'd 'planted' him.

"You'll be pleased to know I don't wish to control you anymore, my sweet dawl. Oh, no," she whispered and smiled, showing off her wicked teeth, "controlling you, while fun, would just be too much of a waste. Instead I've decided that I really need to make a sacrifice. You see, I've discovered that drinking from you—absorbing your essence, your spirit, and ultimately your soul will empower me beyond imagination. It is, unfortunately for you, a temptation which I simply cannot forgo."

Twirling the secespita in her hands, Avin crossed the floor toward him, expectation sparking white hot in her eyes.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

"Bobby, do you see anything?" demanded Sam. Tension carved deep lines in his forehead.

Bobby rubbed at his eyes. "Nothing."

"Damn it! He couldn't have gone that far while we were stuck behind that stupid diaper truck. That means he has to be in one of those buildings near that intersection."

"Yeah, but which one?" growled the older man, "I don't think we have time to search 'em all." Tapping his fingers on the dashboard, Bobby was quiet for a second. "Go around the block; come at 'em slow from the other direction. Maybe we'll see something."

Sam did as Bobby suggested, turning the car around at the next cross street and backtracking to the area where they'd lost Dean. He slowed down to a point where the Impala was barely moving as they studied their surroundings.

"There!" shouted Bobby suddenly. "There's a door open right down that way."

The youngest Winchester whipped the car to the left, following Bobby's pointing finger down an alley. He pulled over and parked behind a big blue dumpster, but left the Impala running for the moment. Sam critically eyed the open metal door that swung to and fro in the steady autumn breeze.

"How can we be sure this is where he disappeared?"

"We can't be sure," responded Bobby, shaking his head. "But it's the only damned lead I've seen so far."

"Yeah, you're right. He didn't just disappear into thin air," muttered Sam as he turned off the ignition. "We better hurry and get in there."

The two men exited the Impala and began to pull their prepared supplies from the trunk.

A harsh scream emanating from the dark depths of the building in front of them sent their hearts racing. The two men hit the doorway at a dead run.


	11. Spirits, Spells, and Shotguns

Sudden wracking, piercing pain sparked a murky awareness deep within the older Winchester's brain. The blackish, roiling fog that had been so completely enveloping his mind dissipated ever so slightly; long enough for him to scream at the agony shooting through his body. Intense shudders wracked his tall, muscular frame. Dean's vision cleared a little, and he was able to see the Encantora somewhat lucidly for the first time. Hers was a singular beauty offset by the sheer and utter evil etched indelibly into every feature. He watched as her head tilted forward once more and her tongue, acting quite like a proboscis, pushed deep into the widening silver-gray wound.

His back arched away from the wall in a feeble attempt to escape both the pain and his heartless tormenter. It was no use, however, as she held him firmly, effortlessly, in place. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but nothing coherent emerged. A new surge of suffering though brought about a second scream. The yelp abruptly transmuted to a moan; the moan slowly fading to a whimper.

Dean broke out in a cold sweat as he fought the miasma, fought her control, but he lost in the end as her insidious curse slammed through his brain, again suppressing awareness.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

As the pair of hunters cleared the door, another harsh scream—abruptly cut off—ripped and echoed throughout the dimly lit space. Sam met Bobby's eyes, extended an index finger, and pointed upward, silently indicating from where the screams were apparently emanating.

Bobby nodded and fell in line behind Sam as they jogged across the abandoned area. At the bottom of the far staircase they paused, listening intently for further noise from above. It remained unnervingly quiet as they advanced up each riser single file.

Reaching the top of the flight of stairs without delay, Sam froze, momentarily stunned, at the sight before him. Dean stood stiff and still, back hard against the wall. A tall, willowy woman stood before him, her head bent near his wounded shoulder with her lips firmly locked over what had once been just a scratch. She appeared to be greedily sucking at the laceration, fresh and lush blood running freely past her lips and down his chest to mingle with the other cherry-red streaks already drying there. The younger Winchester felt nausea rise and a solid ball of ice form in the pit of his stomach at seeing Dean being fed upon. Bobby too froze, a look of disgust settling on his face, as he stepped next to Sam at the threshold.

Sam looked at the other man who motioned him forward with two fingers and a jut of his bearded chin. The young hunter stepped into the room first, followed by his friend and now, in many ways, mentor.

Angry and unwilling to let Dean suffer another moment at the Encantora's hand, Sam yelled, "Get the fuck away from him!"

At Sam's harsh command, the faint sucking sound stopped. Avin's head whipped around, sticky fluid dripping steadily off her chin. She glared at the two intruders with arctic silver eyes.

Her gaze zeroed in on the tall hunter. "You! The dawl's damnable anchor." Each word spoken was a venom-filled epithet.

Unsure of exactly what she meant, Sam simply did not respond. Instead Bobby's rich, deep rumble filled the air.

"Ego requiro vos. Permissum vado."

Fury joined the evil stamped on Avin's face as she screamed, "Never!" Grabbing the rapidly darkening mirror resting near Dean's feet, the Encantora muttered a few guttural unintelligible words.

"Bobby, watch out!" The words of warning flew from Sam's lips a nanosecond too late. A tattered-looking spirit of a large, very large, man coalesced suddenly in front of the older hunter. Before Sam had a chance to bring the shotgun to bear, the fearsome spirit lifted Bobby off his feet and tossed him ass first into a wall with such force that giant flakes of moldy-looking yellow paint rained down on the fallen man like a mini-blizzard.

As the last few paint chips were fluttering down, a shotgun thundered and the cantankerous ghost pixilated and disappeared under the blast of rock salt. Victory, however, was short-lived as Sam was immediately grabbed from behind by another apparition. Thrown violently to the splintery floor, he looked up and was astounded to see the same maggoty-faced bitch that'd attacked Dean earlier at the motel room. She descended on him with startling speed. Her glacial, bony hands closed around his throat and squeezed. The sharp, nauseating tang of decay accompanied her death grip. As icicle fingers bit deeper into his neck, Sam began to gasp for air.

Emerging from beneath the powdery drift of old paint, Bobby Singer attempted to shake off the aftereffects of his recent unscheduled flight and abrupt, painful stop. Years of hunting gave him the wherewithal to instinctively locate and snatch up his shotgun from where it had landed when he dropped it mid-flight. In a blink, he aimed and discharged his weapon, taking out Sam's macabre attacker.

Without hesitation, Bobby launched back into recitation of the unbinding spell, his gruff baritone competing with Avin's increasingly shrill incantations.

"Discerpo cruor ligo. In nomen of quicumque est sanctus . . ."

Two more freakish phantoms appeared, both easily dispatched by dueling shotguns before they got close to the hunters. The sounds of the spent shells bouncing on the wood floor were drowned out when Bobby raised his voice even louder and continued, "quod humanus. Nos—"

Bobby found himself speeding through the air for second time, courtesy of another spirit that suddenly materialized behind him. He hit the wall chest first and he dropped to the floor, winded and dazed.

Sam chambered a round and fired quickly at the semi-transparent creature now heading in his direction. He seamlessly picked up incanting where Bobby had left off.

"In nomen of quicumque est sanctus quod humanus. Nos cubo him ut nostri. Ex is vicis porro! Vos es profugus ut abyssus. "

As the tall hunter finished loudly calling out the last of the unbinding spell, the Encantora's rumbling chant swiftly became a piercing enraged scream. Her eyes glowed bright and hot for a second and then her control over her precious dawl wavered and finally cut out like a digital satellite signal.

No longer under the thumb of the bitch witch's domination, Dean hit the floor with a dull thud, his overtaxed body giving in to the inevitable and overwhelming pull of gravity. He lay there disoriented, head and shoulder throbbing mercilessly, stomach churning. His tall frame was trembling uncontrollably.

Having been forced to relinquish control of her dawl—thereby thwarting her ritual sacrifice—Avin, now nearly incoherent with rage, decided to exact revenge on the interlopers who had essentially stolen him away. A few blurred twirls of her left hand over the mirror conjured a small reddish-orange ball of mist. A puff of air from her lungs turned into a full force gale, dispersing the caustic, gritty mist throughout the room. Other debris, strewn about throughout the cavernous space, was lifted and tossed about, pinging and bouncing off the walls.

Sam immediately felt his eyes tear up and his lungs convulse as he started to cough. Across the room, he could hear Bobby begin to cough as well. Through the blur of tears, the youngest Winchester saw the witch spin around and dive toward his brother. Without thought, Sam sprinted forward a few steps and lunged to tackle her. Buffeted by the continuing indoor tempest, Sam's aim was slightly off and his shoulder merely glanced off hers, knocking her only partially away from Dean.

Before he could recover and turn, the Encantora was beside him, sinking her black and pointed teeth into the meaty part of the back of his shoulder. While his two shirts and bulky jacket mostly protected him, the sharp points still managed to pierce the skin and draw blood. His involuntarily cry of pain was carried away on the unnatural wind. Almost before the pain registered, he felt her let go with a gag and shriek. Momentarily confused at the quick cessation of the attack, Sam looked down to see Dean, precariously swaying on his knees, thrusting a honed dagger deeper into Avin's thigh. As her hand swept down in a blur to claw him across the cheek with her long crimson fingernails, Sam saw Dean give the knife a vicious twist.

"Down!" Bobby's gravelly growl rang out over the howling wind.

Both Winchesters instinctively dropped flat to the floor at the insistent command. A shot rang out and the Encantora sank to the floor, a perfectly round hole in the middle of her forehead. The roaring barrage stopped, and all of the airborne debris plunged to the floor with loud clanks and thuds.

As the boys rose, Dean only as far as his knees, from their prone positions, Bobby approached, gun extended. Sam rubbed a palm over his forehead and took a deep breath, which resulted in another fit of coughing. "Is she dead?"

"No." As if to give proof to Bobby's hoarsely muttered word, Avin blinked and hissed a nasty expletive. A sly look entered her eyes and the Encantora began chanting a malediction and condemnation. The air immediately began to grow thick, almost syrupy, as the red mist coalesced and condensed. Breathing started to take on a whole new meaning. Then, without warning, a second shot rang out, embedding a consecrated iron round into her wicked heart to match the one buried in her brain.

"There. Now she's dead," growled Bobby. The cloying, viscid air quickly returned to normal once the Encantora was truly gone.

The three men watched as thick silvery liquid leaked from the corners of the Encantora's mouth. It dribbled and mixed with Dean's scarlet lifeblood before pooling on the floor beneath her head. What happened next though surprised even this trio. They watched in surprise and no little amount of disgust as her body rapidly started to shrivel, shrink, and blacken—dead, dry skin crackling like dry corn husks. The same silver fluid that had leaked from her mouth now poured from the cracks and crevices forming in the desiccated skin. A raw, noxious odor permeated the air. The putrid smell proved to be too much for Dean's churning stomach and he heaved—throwing up all over the unrecognizable blackened mass of bone, skin, and hair. The vomit mixed with the viscous silver fluid already spattered over the creepy mess.

Crouching down next to Dean and throwing an arm around his shoulders to keep him from keeling over, Sam joked, "Dude, you totally just threw up all over a girl."

His comment elicited a small snort from Dean who responded, "Yeah, but she's _totally_ dead, Sammy. I don't think she'll even notice." As jokes went, it was lame, but it was the best either of them could do at the moment.

"Sam, get your brother down to the car." Pulling the Skullcap, lavender, and Holy water from his pocket, Bobby continued, "I've got to finish up here and find that secespita. I'll be out in a minute."

Nodding, Sam helped his brother to his feet.

Seeing the pale, almost translucent, caste to his brother's complexion and the cold sweat still lingering on his brow, Sam asked, "Think you can walk?"

Dean stood swaying, fists clenched, and thought hard for a few moments. "Uh . . . not sure. Can try."

Even with Sam's arm around his waist in support, Dean's knees buckled after two steps, almost bringing both boys back to the floor. Without hesitation, all the while knowing Dean would hate it, Sam swept him up into a firemen's carry, ignoring both his brother's paltry protests and the slight twinge in the shoulder that had a close encounter with the witch's teeth.

The trip to the big, black Impala was made without incident, and Sam gently eased Dean off his shoulders and helped him into the back seat where he immediately began to drift off, his stressed body shutting down. When Bobby joined them a few minutes later, Sam was sitting, jittery and impatient in the driver's seat and the Impala was rumbling and raring to go.

"God, I'm glad it's over, Bobby."

"Son, hate to say this but it ain't exactly over."

Sam stared at the older hunter with dismay. "What the hell do you mean it isn't over? That thing . . . that Encantora . . . is dead! You said she was dead!"

"She is. But the blood curse is still there, Sam. It didn't die with her. And there's still a chance . . . a real chance . . . that brother of yours could die because of it."

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_**

In case anyone's interested, here are the Latin translations. (I am by no means a Latin expert, I used an online translator.)

Ego requiro vos -- I command thee

Permissum him vado -- let him go.

Discerpo cruor ligo -- Sever the blood tie.

In nomen of quicumque est sanctus -- In the name of all that is holy

Quod humanus -- and human

Nos cubo him -- we reclaim him

Ut nostri -- as ours

Ex is vicis porro -- from this time forward.

Vos es profugus ut abyssus -- You are banished to hell.


	12. My Blood Cleanses

_**Well, here it is--the last chapter. I truly hope everyone enjoys the wrap up. Would love to hear what everyone thinks!**_

* * *

"Okay, we're here. Explain to me what it is I have to do, Bobby?"

Sam gazed down at his still-sleeping brother who was stretched straight out on autumn-parched, yellowed grass. A few dry, crispy leaves scampered and danced up and over his prone body, pausing briefly before continuing on their solitary journeys, as a cold, bitter breeze kicked up to remind them it was November.

The tall young man pulled his jacket tighter around his torso, shivers climbing up and then sliding down his spine. His were nothing though when compared with the shaking currently rattling through Dean.

"You're sure this is the right place?" rumbled the older man.

Sam looked around the secluded section of Rose Ridge Cemetery where they currently stood. Things looked slightly different now in the early fading light of day than they had in the pitch black of the night before.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is close to where he was standing last night. Benjamin Booker's grave is right over there," Sam cocked his head to the left, "and that headstone right there has a little streak of blood on it where he scraped his cheek when Booker's spirit threw him into it." He pointed at the headstone of one 'Calvin Puck'.

"All right. We best get started then. Take the secespita." Bobby handed Sam the sacrificial knife before pulling out an empty glass he'd grabbed from the motel room and filling it about halfway with a generous amount of holy water. "Now you need to cut each of your thumbs with the knife, one at a time, and put 13 drops of blood from each thumb into the water. For each drop, you say one of the words from that list we went over."

With fierce concentration, the young man immediately set about following the Bobby's instructions. He sliced deeply, without flinching, into his left thumb first and held it over the glass the older man was holding.

For each drop of ruby liquid that hit the water, creating tiny little ripples across the surface, Sam repeated the ordered list of words. "Meus cruor purgo. Frater. Comitis. Pneum. Vires. Fortitudo. Libertas. Spero. Vita. Delectio. Semper."

Switching hands, Sam used the secespita a second time and cut his right thumb. A few beads of blood flowed and plopped into the water. "Meus cruor purgo. Frater—" The thick liquid slowed and stopped, forcing him to reach out and squeeze his right thumb hard to get the flow started again. As the dripping picked up once more, Sam recited the rest of the words. When he was done, he wiped both thumbs on his jeans, leaving behind two bloody streaks.

Bobby instructed, "Stir the water with the secespita."

The youngest Winchester did as he was told and then looked questioningly at Bobby. "Now what?"

"We have to wake him up and get him to drink it."

For the first time, hesitation and doubt crossed Sam's face. He stared at the glass uneasily.

_Dean has to drink my blood? But . . . if it's tainted like the yellow-eyed demon implied . . . I . . . I can't risk it._

Mistaking Sam's slight waver for disgust, Bobby muttered, "It isn't that much. Thirteen drops from each thumb."

When Sam still hesitated, the bearded man continued, "It's gotta be done, son. My contact said it's the only chance we've got. Blood of a loved one, wrought by the carrier of the curse, must be ingested by the person affected. It weakens the curse's bond. The blessing said as the blood is drawn will hopefully break it."

At Bobby's words, Sam's mind flashed back to one of his earlier fights with Dean. Blood from his nose had dribbled down on Dean's face and one or two drops had fallen in his mouth. He had snapped out of the Avin-controlled trance immediately. Armed with this memory, Sam decided it wouldn't matter now if Dean ingested 26 more drops of his lifeblood.

Sinking to his knees next to his older brother, Sam pulled him to a sitting position, calling his name, "Dean? Dean, c'mon, I need you to wake up." Sam lightly tapped his brother's cheeks. Receiving no response, he finally resorted to applying a knuckle to Dean's sternum.

His sibling responded with a groan.

"That's it. C'mon, bro." A few more moments of cajoling brought Dean around, hopefully enough for him to drink the concoction Bobby held at the ready.

"Sam . . . before you start . . ." Bobby paused.

"Yeah?"

"He . . . he might . . . find this painful. My contact said this can be painful."

Sam's heart sank at hearing he was about to cause his brother more pain. Yet he knew he had no choice. He accepted the glass Bobby held out to him.

"Dean, I need you to drink this." He held the glass to his sibling's lips and tilted. When his brother resisted, Sam's anxiety boiled over and he growled deeply, "Damn it. C'mon. You have to drink this shit! I mean it, Dean. Drink—NOW!"

Whether it was his words or the commanding, demanding tone of his voice, Sam didn't know, but he watched Dean take large swallows of the pink-tinged holy water until the glass was empty.

When it was gone, the younger man handed the glass back to Bobby and eased Dean back down to the ground. A minute passed where nothing happened, and then suddenly his brother's body started to convulse, muscles spasming with great intensity.

Sam watched in horror as Dean's back arched off the ground in response to the pain tearing through his body. Loud grunts of suffering filled the air around them and tears leaked copiously from under the older Winchester's closed eyelids, running down his temples before splashing on the dry grass. Sam felt his own eyes grow moist at this torture he'd inflicted. Tears trembled briefly on his lashes and then lost the fight with gravity and trekked their way down his cheeks.

"God, Bobby, what have I done?"

Singer, himself quite choked up at the sight before him, cleared his throat before speaking. "You might be saving his life, Sam."

"Yeah, _might be_. Sure as hell doesn't look like it right now!"

After another minute or so, Dean's convulsions stopped. He went deathly still and so, for a moment, did Sam. Filled with trepidation, he leaned over and felt for a pulse in Dean's neck, breathing a sigh of relief upon finding one, even if it was slow and erratic.

Sam stood on shaky legs. "He's freezing. We need to get him back to the motel."

"Wait. There's one more thing we have to do."

Driven with worry, Sam uttered an impatient, "What now?"

Bobby motioned to the secespita resting on the ground near Sam's feet. "Burn it."

The two hunters quickly built a small fire. Once it was glowing bright and hot, Sam dropped the sacrificial dagger right in the center of the flames. After watching the glittering silver dull and blacken, Sam asked, "Can we go now?"

"Yeah. You take Dean to the car. I'll put this out and throw some dirt on it."

The Impala was racing its way back to the Best Rest Motel within 15 minutes, devouring the road like the growling hungry beast it was.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

_Where the hell am I?_

_Dean looked around and saw nothing but an echoing empty landscape painted in hues of icy blue-white. It was neither dark nor light. There was no up or down, no side-to-side, just an abject vacuity—an unending nothingness. No wind, rain, or any other element touched this place; it knew nothing but cold. _

_The almost sentient iciness embraced Dean. Kissed seductively across his skin and caressed lightly like a lover. At first, it whispered bewitchingly in his ear. It tempted him to just lie down, to simply close his eyes._

_It tempted him to surrender. _

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Outside the motel room, night had tripped over twilight hours ago and had fallen hard, landing with a thud as it was wont to do in late autumn. Sam Winchester sat in the uncomfortably hard wooden chair next to the bed where Dean lay prone and unmoving—three blankets smothering his trembling frame. He stared at his brother's ashen countenance in anguish. Dean hadn't moved at all since the ordeal at Rose Ridge Cemetery. He was breathing albeit shallowly, and his heart was beating—slowly—too slowly for Sam's liking.

Bobby dropped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Why don't you get some sleep?"

The younger man wearily shook off the hand. Despite his exhaustion, he was determined to keep vigil over his ailing brother. "I can't. I need to be here for him."

"Ya ain't gonna do him any good if you're down for the count."

Sam shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the words.

Bobby sighed at the kid's stubbornness and considered taking the easier route and just knocking him out. After several moments of serious contemplation, he finally decided to try a little negotiation instead.

"One hour."

"What?"

"One hour. Just sleep for one hour. A power nap."

"I can't."

"You can. Listen, son, you won't eat," the hunter jutted his chin toward the congealed food abandoned on the table, "and you won't sleep. After everything that's happened, you're heading for a crash. And if you really want to be there for Dean, you'll realize that."

With every fiber of his being, Sam wanted to continue to deny the truth, but he couldn't. His body was calling out for rest.

Seeing Sam warring with himself, Singer used his last ace in the hole. "I ain't chopped liver, you know. I can sit in that damn chair and watch over him just as easily as you can." He knew he'd won when the kid closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest.

"Fine. One hour. You'll wake me up if something happens though, right?"

"Of course, you idjit."

Sam moved from the chair and dropped down on his bed, fully clothed. Not bothering with the light sheet, the only covering remaining on the bed, he closed his eyes. It wasn't long before sleep claimed him.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

_The solitary man shivered and shuddered; a sense of loneliness engulfing him. An eerie keening suddenly echoed in this forlorn and alien place. The sorrowful elegy grew louder and louder, overwhelming him. Overpowering him._

_He sank to his knees, hands covering his ears. Tears, one or two at first—then many, meandered down his milk white cheeks. His own lament escaped past his unwilling lips, joining and blending with the rest. It became a mournful, gasping cacophony._

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Looking at his watch, Bobby decided it was time to wake the youngest Winchester. He'd promised to do so in an hour and he'd already stretched that to two. Any longer and the kid would have his head. "Hey, Sam. Time to wake up." When Sam didn't move, Bobby reached out and grabbed his shoulder, shaking lightly. "Sam, c'mon, wake up."

Young Winchester came awake with a grunt and sat straight up. Having no sense of how long he'd been out, Sam muttered, "Bobby? What it is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. He's exactly the same as when you went to sleep two hours ago."

"TWO hou— Damn it, you promised you'd wake me up after one!"

Bobby growled. "And I would have too if you hadn't needed it so bad. It didn't matter. Dean hasn't so much as twitched."

Sam flew to his feet, his agitation coming back full force as he began to pace. "Why isn't he waking up? Shouldn't he be getting better?" He paused by the bed and reached down to touch his brother's cheek. "Look at him! He's barely breathing. He's cold—as ice cold as a damn corpse." Swinging away, the tall man pounded a fist into the wall. "God, did we do something wrong, Bobby? He should be awake by now!"

Having no words, no explanation in the face of the boy's distress, Bobby remained silent.

The young hunter threw himself into the chair that was pulled up as close to Dean's bed as it could get. Desperate, he grabbed a hold of Dean's wrist. "C'mon, bro, where are you? You need to get your ass back here!" Sam dropped his head down, resting his forehead against Dean's unnaturally chilled arm. "Sonuvabitch. I'm not gonna let you do this."

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

_He closed his eyes, on the edge allowing himself to sink into the pool of surrender when the wailing stopped. Dean raised his head in confusion. The sudden silence was more deafening than the doleful piercing racket had been. Something felt different, but he couldn't quite place at first exactly what it was._

_Then it dawned on him. He felt warmth. For the first time in a long time, he felt warmth touch him. It started in his hand, on his arm, and it quickly spread. Before long, the sensation completely surrounded him and his shuddering came to an abrupt and welcome halt._

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

"Dude, why the hell are you holding my hand?" The whisper was so soft it was barely audible, but Sam heard it. He heard it and his head snapped up so fast he risked whiplash. He met the somewhat glassy green eyes of his brother.

"Dean! You're awake! Thank God—I'd thought we'd lost you."

Voice still pitched in a low whisper, Dean teased, "Ahh, giraffe-boy, you should know you can't get rid of me that easily."

"Yeah, well, it was a close thing this time!"

"Is that why you're still holding my hand?"

"I am NOT holding your hand, dude. Wrist—it's your wrist." Sam grumbled around the giant, sunshine smile lighting up his face. He let go of his brother's arm. "How're you feeling?"

"Better. Warm. It's been a long time since I could say that. Hey, what happened to your thumbs? Why are they all bandaged up?"

"Ahh, it's nothing. Bobby and I will explain later."

Having forgotten the older man's presence, Dean glanced around until his eyes found their friend and fellow hunter. He then turned his attention to Sam and studied his younger brother's face intently before nodding and closing his eyes for a second to regain is equilibrium.

" 'kay."

"You're sure your feeling all right?" A ghost of worry still weaved its way through Sam's tone.

Dean thought about his lost time in that icy blue nothingness. He suppressed a lingering shiver and concentrated on the warmth. "Yeah. I'm sure. Except . . ."

Sam felt his breath hitch. "Except what?"

"I'm starving."

A gravelly chuckle resounded throughout the motel room. Before either of the Winchesters could say anything else or even move, Bobby pulled his truck keys out of his front jean pocket.

"I'm on it."

Sam helped Dean sit up, noticing some color creeping back into his face. "You look like shit, you know that?"

Dean studied his younger sibling's face, seeing the dark circles and worry lines etched there. "Hey, pretty boy, look in the mirror—you don't exactly look like Miss America yourself right now."

Sam scowled and growled but couldn't keep his grin from coming back full force. "Yeah, well, whatever . . . welcome back, bro."

_**THE END**_

* * *

A few more Latin translations:

Meus cruor purgo -- my blood cleanses

frater -- brother

comitis -- friend

pneum -- breath

vires -- strength

fortitudo -- courage

libertas -- freedom

spero -- hope

vita -- life

delectio -- love

semper -- always


End file.
